


House of 1000 Corpses

by phoenixjustice



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Bane is more philosophical than I first realized, Come Eating, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mentions of Batman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26812687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixjustice/pseuds/phoenixjustice
Summary: ABanejokesfic set sometime after New 52.With anyone else he could see the falsities in it, too much exaggeration, trying to prove that they held no fear within him...but he knows it isn't false when it comes to Joker. And not from a place of hubris or too much egotism either.
Relationships: Bane/Joker (DCU)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	House of 1000 Corpses

**Author's Note:**

> For Kai!
> 
> I hope you like it bby.

House of 1000 Corpses

By: PhoenixJustice

A _Banejokes_ fic set sometime vaguely after New 52?

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"And so I said, 'I think you need a new waiter.' And then Oswald said 'Well, you killed the last one. And the one before that. And the one before _that._ And-' Then I got bored listening to him, so I just started firing my pistol at the nearest wall. Didn't make the smiley face I wanted though! Maybe I should go and get a couple of pistols next time and try again…"

Joker continues to twirl a pencil between his pale fingers, lying on his stomach, seemingly uncaring about the dirt and whatever other substances might be on the floor. He looks up at who he had been talking to.

"You're not a very good listener." He complains.

"Uh, that's cause he's passed out from his meds." Someone says.

There's the briefest of silences before there are whispers, telling the guy who had just spoken to _shut the fuck up what are you doing?_ Joker looks in the guy's direction and his head tilts.

"Dude, shut the fuck up." Another of the men says in what he probably thought was a whisper but was still loud enough to hear.

"You." Joker says, at the guy who had spoken up initially. "Come here."

He continues to look utterly relaxed, feet kicking as he continues to lay on his stomach, still twirling his pencil. The guy approaches, hesitance and fear on his face. A blink and without a single change to his expression-nor to his relaxed approach on the ground, stabs the guy hard in the foot with his pencil.

The guy screams in pain, stumbling back, pencil still stuck deep in his foot, blood spurting from the opened wound. He stumbles out of the rec room, no doubt in search of some first aid. A moment of silence passes, then people slowly start to go back to what they were doing, so many of them so obviously used to Joker and how he did things.

He watches all of this, fascinated. Beside him, someone whistles softly.

"Always a sight to behold, huh?" Bird says.

There were not many who were keen on being near him, rather like they didn't want to be near Joker either, but Bird had no fear of him. Not in the way that the rest of these people did. He had a healthy fear of many things, however. And he had proven to be a staunch ally, which was important to him, especially after Gotham had swallowed so many of them up and spit them mercilessly back up right after.

It was an interesting thing though, to see the tinge of fear in men and women's voices, the hesitance in their eyes, when they dealt with or looked at Joker or at himself. When it came to body types, he certainly held the edge of muscle over the tall and extremely lanky, almost gangly, Joker. But when it came to the _mind,_ well, somehow there were people who overlooked the keen mind that Joker possessed-most often to their detriment. That was the real power of Joker, he felt; Joker used madness as a smokescreen to hide the most strategic parts of himself.

"Well enough, I guess." Zombie says. His deep set eyes seem even more hollow than usual; the past few Arkham stays have not done him well. Blackgate, as heavy of a prison as it is, would still have suited him better. Amongst so many _particular_ characters, Zombie's personality could not hold up, not against the likes of your Mad Hatter's, Riddler's, Two Face's or yes, Joker's.

"Better than seeing him all soaped up in the bathroom again," Zombie continues. "Saw enough pasty white ass to last me a lifetime. Can't he find somewhere else to get fucked? Fag-"

He grabs the back of Zombie's neck and slams his face hard into the table where he sat. Zombie lets out a cry of pain, falling back, clutching his bloody and already swollen nose.

"What was that for?" Zombie cries.

"Why do you think, fuckface?" Bird says in return, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

"Bane, I'm sorry." Zombie coughs, wiping at his face with his Arkham issued orange shirt. "I didn't mean anything. Was just shooting the shit."

He glances down at him briefly, then looks away. He tries to get back to his book (so few books of interest in the place left and it sometimes was too much trouble to get some smuggled in or bribed in) but the disgust in him at Zombie doesn't leave him. He slams the book shut and slams it down on the table.

He would just use the rest of his downtime for working out then. It afforded him more of a time to gather his thoughts than most other things did in this place (he could certainly tune people out if he absolutely had to, but the sight of him working out seemed to quiet people. Fear, he had learned from a very young age, could be a useful tool. No wonder that people like Crane had wanted to weaponize it. If only Crane knew how to utilize it correctly...but that could be for another time.)

The relatively small area used primarily for working out and other exercises (such as walking, for those who were weaker, inmates like Ventriloquist and others) and is nearly empty of people, outside of a couple of inmates who he recognizes by sight by virtue of having seen them enough in the place but they aren't high enough on his mental totem pole for him to care to catch their names.

As soon as they see him, he can see their eyes get wide and try and head out in a way they think is subtle. It's quite amusing to watch. The different layers of anxiousness and fear and other emotions that people exhibited-and often couldn't hide (though it was obvious that many tried)-was always interesting to him.

Perhaps that came from spending so many years in isolation. Trying to understand people had become very important, especially when making that first break out of Santa Prisca. Trying to understand through the many books he absorbed, so quickly it felt like almost through osmosis, and then by talking with people. Talking and learning many languages. The little nuances of language of the meaning of words and how they could differ so greatly or so little between people or languages. Barriers quickly lowered…

If only the Venom hadn't been…

He clenches his fist, letting out a breath, leaning his head back against a wall for a moment. He had always prided himself on not needing any other substances or the like to be strong, to be smart, to be _cunning._ He had gotten so far in Santa Prisca on his own merits, his strength even _then_ nothing to shrug at.

But Venom was another animal entirely. It coursed through his veins many times over for such a long time, more potent than any other addiction could be. Perhaps it was pride to say that none, save him, could overcome such a thing, but pride didn't take away from the _truth._ It had been one of the most difficult things in his life to overcome (which, given the amount of things he had already been though, spoke volumes) and he _had_ overcome it, but it had come with its own struggles before, during _and_ after.

Even without the sweet cocktail of Venom running through his veins, he was still unfathomably strong, so he started to do reps with the reinforced weight bars that Arkham had been provided (by WayneTech), trying to clear his mind. But it's not as easy as usual, his mind running around what Zombie had said, in his snide little tone.

He was used to crude language; he had grown up around it. But there was something so... _visceral_ about certain words. Words, he had learned, as he grew up from a boy to a man, as he absorbed books with lightning quickness, had power. Just look at the dictators or other leaders of the world, whether underground or above ground.

The words they spoke held _power._

People looked at things like wars or battles and saw only the physical. And certainly the physical aspect of it was one of the biggest-and most obvious-things people would notice. But those things happened at the command of _words;_ from Leaders, from cowards, from heroes… words held power.

And for Zombie to speak of someone in such a way, as if _he_ held any power, as if his opinion _mattered,_ as if only what _he_ thought was allowed. The thought was infuriating.

He doesn't realize _how_ infuriating he found it, until a cough behind him, a voice speaking up.

"Haven't you heard that phrase about expressions sticking on your face? Well okay, you have your mask on. And I don't think that expression is true...but it could be! ...I lost my train of thought."

He turns around to see Joker in the doorway, leaning casually against it, ankles crossed as he idly scratches at his side, as if unafraid. With anyone else he could see the falsities in it, too much exaggeration, trying to prove that they held no fear within him...but he knows it isn't false when it comes to Joker. And not from a place of hubris or too much egotism either.

He glances down at the weights, seeing his hands clenched into a near death grip, threatening to bend the steel, enforced though it was, and places it back into position. He lets out a breath. He had nearly forgotten he was still wearing his mask until Joker had pointed it out. Though it no longer connected him to the Venom, he was so used to wearing it now that it felt often alien to not have it on or with him.

Identity, he had also learned, was incredibly important.

How and in what ways that meant for people was one thing, but people held onto their own personal identities with a fierceness unlike almost anything else, especially in Gotham. Big personalities-to say the least-helped define the city as much as the darkness that permeated it.

And Joker was, of course, a _tour de force_ of personality that many had tried to replicate and none had succeeded.

"You care about the equipment that deeply?" He asks Joker, dry amusement in his tone. "If anything, it would only cause Wayne to spend more money. Wouldn't that _amuse_ you more?"

Even from his spot, unmoving, he can see the flash of fire in Joker's eyes at the mention of Wayne. That was the open secret between them, something that so few-especially "villains"-knew, that Bruce Wayne was also the Batman. Were he not who he was, he was sure Joker would be tempted to gut him on the spot for daring to speak of Wayne in such a tone...perhaps he would try anyway (Joker was, after all, of a whimsical sort.)

Joker pushes off of the doorway, the reinforced door closing loudly behind him, almost stalking up towards him, his lanky body mesmerizing in its own way as he approaches him. He comes to stand in front of him and it's an interesting sight, as there were not many who nearly rivaled his great height.

"What would amuse me?" Joker asks, tilting his head. "Oh! Like the boys in the rec room were being amusing!" He leans in close, voice lowering to an exaggerated whisper. "Or did you think those kinds of things bother me?"

"They don't?"

He had gotten so used to the physical wars in Gotham (and sometimes beyond, as the situation called for it) that this _intellectual war_ with Joker was thrilling him in a way he had not been in for quite some time.

Joker shrugs, putting his hands behind his back as he straightens up, rocking back and forth on his bare heels.

"Mmm… does being called faggot or gay or queer or twink boy bother me? Words are strong and interchangeable in certain hands, aren't they? When people want to call you _faggot_ they instead use _monster_ but mean the same thing. Or the same, but reversed. Words are powerful."

He looks at Joker, stunned. The very same thoughts had just been running around in his own head. Once again the clown's mind was at full display, showing just how sharp it was, as sharp as the knives he so often employed.

"They don't bother you?" He asks again. Why was he so persistent in this? What sort of end was he driving to, continuing to ask Joker these things?

"Do they bother _you?"_

"Why can't you give me a straight answer?"

Joker tilts his head again, looking at him even closer now.

"Why does it matter if it bothers me or not? We both have certainly heard even _worse_ things. So why does it bother _you?"_

Why _did_ it bother him? Today hadn't been any different than the one before it or the one before that. Or the one before _that._ So many similar days in a row in Arkham's clutches...perhaps _that_ was what it was? He had not had many stays in Arkham Asylum, much less extended ones. Was this just his mind having a hairline crack in its defences?

But he feared nothing Arkham offered, which included its inmates. Did not fear the threat of isolation; he had spent the majority of his life in the safety of his own head, his thoughts. So why was he focusing so on this? Perhaps because it happened so infrequently in Arkham, despite what some thought?

Joker's... _preferences_ were no secret, much less in Arkham. Though the clown had extended periods with women like Harleen Quinzel and the like, his open flirting with men, well open flirting with _all genders,_ really (and even those outside of the gender boundary as well), was well known, including many exes (some who had ended up dead and some who had not, though perhaps some had wished they had.)

And because Joker's likes were no secret, if there were any who held any sort of homophobic belief or the like, they tended to keep it close to the chest (there were few people he consider true geniuses at their crafts, but he was certainly one of them) for fear of what Joker might do to them.

Was that why he was so bothered, because Zombie had chosen to speak up in such a crude and moronic way? Bane was no stranger to men finding pleasure or even love together; he had grown up in a men's prison, so it was more often the norm than it was the opposite (and some had even found a measure of true happiness with one another.)

There was no room for those sorts of archaic beliefs in his world.

And yet here Joker was, looking at him as if he had no cares in the world, shrugging things off like water off a duck's back, as if it were nothing. It would be admirable if it didn't also _infuriate_ him.

"You take too little stock in yourself." He snarls.

Joker blinks, looking genuinely startled for once. He takes a step forward and interestingly, Joker takes a step _back._ A caught off Joker was an interesting sight, but not enough to take away from the burning feeling thrumming in his veins now. He was no longer addicted to Venom, no longer let it swim within him, but he still recognized the hum of _addiction,_ of being so caught up in something...and being unable to stop yourself from the _taste_ of it.

"Aha!" Joker exclaims, licking his lips and putting a smile on his face-though his eyes tell a different story. "A new game! I see, I see...so even _you_ can get tired of the same painted over walls of dear old Arkham Asylum? Well, you should have just said so, darling! I know _plenty_ of ways to pass the time!"

"You deflect with your little jokes." He says, taking another step forward. Joker takes another step back. What a little dance they suddenly are a part of, with him stalking forward like the great Lion and Joker-unusually-more akin to the prey. "What fools they be, those who do not see past your honeyed words in favor of the true danger beneath. So few _truly_ see it. Even _him,_ your Wayne, does _he_ see what you truly mean?"

"Stop saying his name." Joker hisses, his eyes flashing with the most genuine anger he's seen from him in quite some time. As always, the Batman is a sore spot for the Clown Prince of Crime.

"Why? Do you think it would summon him here?" He asks snidely. He has Joker nearly boxed in now, as the clown's back comes up against a bare wall (there were no things allowed up on the walls in Arkham-anything could be used as a weapon, after all, by the inmates.) "Do you think he cares about you while you're still stuck in the darkest bowels that Gotham City has to offer?"

"Shut up."

"Do you think he _cares_ while you are not out there defiling "his city"? I wonder how many sighs of relief he has at night at the thought of not having to deal with _you."_

" _I said shut up!"_

True, genuine, anger and it is thrilling to watch, the hum of anger in his own veins, catching the hand Joker sends his way, marveling, even under such a situation, at it, how it is almost _delicate_ , soft under his large hand. Joker's skin was pale white, something everyone knew, but seeing it this closely, it seems almost _translucent_ in a way, the faint blue of bloodlines, a body that if any other mind ran it, might be fragile, but under the touch of The Joker was something else entirely.

"Beautiful." He breathes.

There's a pause, he looks down at Joker who has stilled under his touch, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"Let go of me." Joker says. But his voice does not hold the bite of anger any longer, nor does his eyes.

He lets him go and they stand like that for a moment, watching each other. And then Joker reaches up with hands that are not quite steady, reaching for his mask. If it were any other person, in other circumstances, he would have struck them for even daring to reach, but he only watches as Joker reaches for his mask and starts to pull it away from him.

"Too many wires." Joker complains under his breath as he also pulls the wires out as well.

"They're a reminder." He says.

Joker looks up at him.

"Mmm." Joker hums, tossing the mask and accompaniment aside. "The thrill of the pleasure...a reminder…"

"Some reminders," He says, pulling at Joker's hair, making him gasp. "Are more permanent, aren't they? One only needs to look at themselves in a mirror. Or…"

He uses his free hand to run a rough hand down the back of Joker's neck, his nails digging into the skin as it moves down. And Joker? He _moans._

The sound is a deep shot of adrenaline inside of him and he is instantly aware that he hasn't _touched_ anyone, especially in this way, in a very long time. And very few are as instantly _receptive_ to such a rough touch. He pushes Joker harder against the wall, sucking down his next moan with his mouth, licking the dry lips before moving away from his mouth just as abruptly.

"But that's not what you want, is it?" He asks, pulling on his hair again. "Anything _soft_ is for your Bat, if only he would give it to you, isn't it?"

Joker hisses, hands digging like claws into Bane's chest, nails sharp even through the Arkham issued orange jumpsuit.

"What I want…" Joker pants.

"I'll give it to you, _payaso._ You've been deprived, haven't you? In this place?" He turns Joker around, the other man's stomach hitting the wall now. "I'll give you what you _need."_

It had been a long time since he had been bared to anyone, as he pulls down his jumpsuit down much of his body, his mask more a symbol of that nakedness than literal nakedness to him. He knows no shame of his own body. He is proud of every muscle, of every scar and scrape. It is a sign of _being alive._ He has great admiration of scars, wondering the stories behind them.

Joker is _living art_ before his eyes, as he all but rips the jumpsuit off of his body, his pale skin littered with scars and scrapes and the _beauty_ of all of it, some scars so faint, especially against his white skin that they are nearly invisible to the eye, some are red and swollen, very new, making him wonder the story behind them.

He runs his hands over the scars with a surprising gentleness, watching Joker's reactions with a careful, swiftly becoming greedy, eye. Joker was very sensitive, he notes. He hadn't realized until now just how sensitive the clown's skin truly was; he seems hyper sensitive to the slightest touches.

He runs a hand down his back, watching him jerk with each touch, down his flank, squeezing his ass with a harder grip, soaking in his moans as he pushes his legs apart.

"Ah." Joker moans. "I-"

"Shh." He says, leaning down, biting down on Joker's neck, his cock hard and leaking, needy, already as he pushes up closer against him, moving it between Joker's legs, up against Joker's cock which is just as hard, feeling it pulse up against him.

He thrusts forward, letting out a hissing breath as the snug channel of Joker's legs only tightens.

"Christ, you're big." Joker gasps. "You must-must have anyone sitting rough for _weeks._ When you fuck me…"

Joker pushes up against him and slowly a rhythm starts to happen between them. Surprisingly none of it is awkward. He held no shame, sure, but doing something new with someone could always be awkward in its beginnings, but not here. He likes it. He likes the intoxicating feeling of this push and pull between them.

"When I fuck you?" He asks, pulling on the back of Joker's hair, bending his head back into a difficult angle, making him gasp in pain-and obvious pleasure. "Oh, but you're an impatient one, aren't you, _payaso?_ There are so many things I will do to you over these many days; we have all the time in the world right now, don't we?"

He moves a hand down Joker's front, down his lanky frame, until he feels Joker's cock, hard and heavy between his legs, grasping it in his large grip tightly, pumping him with each thrust, creating a new rhythm for the two of them.

Joker's eyes, hazy now with building pleasure, connect with his.

"Harder." Joker says.

He laughs softly and acquiesces, pumping his cock now with a near brutal grip, taking in Joker's cries with pleasure, releases Joker's hair, letting the clown pant now with his head against the wall, the only sounds their breathing, the moans…

"Going to come." Joker pants. "Going to come, going to-"

He squeezes the base of Joker's cock and Joker lets out a choking cry.

"Let me come." Joker moans. He claws at the wall with his hands, eyes wide, the pupils large and black from pleasure. "Let me come!"

"You'll come," He croons against his ear. He thrusts again, leaving Joker to let out a sobbing cry as he pushes up against him again. "Patience, my dear _payaso,_ is a _virtue."_

And with that, he ignores Joker's cries and pleads and instead searches out his own pleasure, hissing with the building pleasure, his thoughts straying to what it really would be like to fuck Joker. The pleasure upon the clown's face as his cock slammed inside of him-

His hands grip Joker's hips tightly, head against his shoulder blades, as he cannot hold back a moan, pleasure shooting through his body as his cock jerks, come splattering them, hitting the wall.

They stand like that for a moment, Joker's cock still tightly in his grip, the clown shuddering as he pulls away from him.

"You-" Joker starts.

He pulls at Joker, making them both fall to the floor, with Joker landing in his lap, still facing away from him. He doesn't let him speak any further before he starts to pump at his cock again, which had stayed hard and throbbing in his grip all the while as he sought out his own pleasure.

Joker moans in obvious approval, hips jerking, making his cock start to stir with a renewed interest despite having just come. It only takes a few more strokes, with Joker overstimulated from their previous exertions, before Joker's head flies back as he cries out his pleasure, uncaring of anyone who might overhear it.

His come coats Bane's hand, over their bodies as he rocks out his pleasure, before falling nearly bonelessly against Bane. He puts his hand, covered now with both of their own pleasure, to Joker's mouth.

"Clean it."

Joker moans and sucks on his hand, licking it free and clean of the come. As soon as he's finished, he pulls his head back, kissing him again, swallowing down his moan as he deepens it, tasting himself upon Joker's tongue, tasting the _both_ of them.

"Next time, _payaso."_ He says, after he pulls away from his mouth, finding himself already wanting to do it again. "Will be in a better place than this."

"Mmm." Joker says, his eyes heavy from sated pleasure. "Is that your way of saying you want to play nice again? Or are you going to tease a girl with a hit it and quit it?"

"There will be nothing _nice_ about it."

Joker laughs.

"Promises, promises!"

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End file.
